Strawberries and Cinnamon

Strawberries and Cinnamon

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Fri, May 29, 2015
A 21-year old girl moved to New York when she was 18 with her best friend, Jade. But after she worked with her roommate on the possible solution for a case involving a mob boss's mysterious death, she started to have weird, vivid dreams, heat and the constant scent of strawberries and cinnamon. She spends her time searching for the answer, to who or what is the constant presence she feels, when the answer shows up in the form of a teacher in her Psychology class, familiar in her laugh, her smile, and the familiar scent of strawberries and cinnamon.
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.

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